


dutch wife

by rhysgore



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Dehumanization, Dirty Talk, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Second Person, Robot Anatomy, Service, limbo is a creep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 15:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21273641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysgore/pseuds/rhysgore
Summary: What you know of him starts with owing him the simulacrum of life you have now, and ends with his orders being absolute.





	dutch wife

**Author's Note:**

> this is mostly the result of limbo's "come dance with my puppet" line, which is,,, yea. it ended up being a very soft E, though.

Caster wants something from you.

You cannot pretend to understand him. What you know of him starts with owing him the simulacrum of life you have now, and ends with his orders being absolute. You question him only when you feel his methods are inefficient, and ask things of him in return only when you know they will help you carry out your duties. Your body, grateful as you are for him fixing it, is no more than an extension of his.

Standing before him, you remain impassive as he appraises you.

“What can I do for you, my lord?” You ask him.

Caster circles around you, watching you closely. The bells in his hair jingle softly. You can’t understand the purpose of the decoration. Caster’s ability to conceal his presence is near-flawless, but you can only imagine his choice of ornamentation makes it more difficult, unnecessarily. You don’t move, waiting for him to speak.

Eventually, he circles around to your front again. He puts his hands on your shoulders. The pressure sensors in your skin tell you it’s a light touch. Heat sensors tell you his flesh is cool, cooler than a human’s should be.

“Danzou,” he says, voice a gentle lilt. He must be in a good mood. He usually is- Caster has the air about him of someone to whom the world is one big game. “My doll. Is there anything you would deny me, if I asked it of you?”

“No.”

You’re not sure you could, but you have no desire to. You’re not entirely sure you’re capable of desire. This body, your body, doesn’t need to eat or sleep. What pain it feels is registered as fact- if its arm is broken, or malfunctioning, your body tells you plainly, so you can repair it.

“There’s a good girl,” Caster says. “Ah-  _ girl  _ may not be the most appropriate term. A good puppet, I suppose.”

His lips curl back, bearing fanglike teeth.

“I would like to fuck you, Danzou.”

It’s a new duty, to be certain. You’re perfectly capable of carrying it out, odd as it is- you possess both external and internal genitalia, although without a womb or ability to ovulate, you can hardly understand why. There is no practical purpose for your body to have sex organs, as anyone who gets close enough to see them would also be close enough to tell you are not human. They do not make you more mobile, or stronger, or more capable of assassination.

You nod at Caster. “If that is your request.”

Chuckling softly, he moves his hands from your shoulders to your waist, finally settling them against the seams that hide the ball-joints in your hips. You stand there, impassively, as he works at the garments covering your lower half, unbuttoning and pushing fabric aside until you are as bare as he needs you.

Most of your “flesh” is made out of a unique type of ceramic. It’s almost unbreakable, but lighter and a better imitation of human skin than steel. You are wired to feel touch, but no more than that. Human contact brings you neither pain nor pleasure. Internal temperature regulators ensure that the heat your mechanical core produces is vented properly, and as a result, your casing, your “skin”, is always cold. 

Caster doesn’t seem to mind this, however. He runs his hands over your body, humming softly, appreciatively to himself as he does. You suppose he is owed this- while your body is not of his own making, it is because of him that it is currently functional.

“What a lovely shell you have,” Caster says, as if reading your mind. “I suppose I have your original maker to thank for that. Did he ever fuck you? He must have- I can’t imagine making a doll so beautiful, so obedient, and not taking advantage.”

You cannot remember, but it seems Caster was being rhetorical, and doesn’t mind you not answering this time. His hand feels around between your legs, one of the only soft parts of you- painstakingly anatomically accurate, for reasons you cannot fathom. Perhaps the sorcerer did desire this from you, at some point.

Caster’s long nails scrape when he slides his fingers inside of you. The feeling is like an itch, something your body is aware of, but nothing more. 

“Self-lubricating, hmm?” He observes with a smirk, pulling his hand out, showing it to you. His fingers are coated in a thin layer of translucent liquid. You observe it, not entirely sure what it’s made out of. Perhaps it’s an oil byproduct. “Certainly convenient, though not wholly necessary. I doubt you would have had any complaints if I fucked you without it.”

His sigh sounds almost disappointed.

When he grows bored of simply touching you, he grasps you by the shoulders again, and you turn around, moving obediently as he pushes you over towards the nearest piece of furniture, a chest of drawers propped up against the wall. You prop yourself up on it, arms straight, palms down against the wood, spreading your legs when he nudges at your ankles with his feet. You imagine if you had human flesh, you would be cold right now, sparsely covered in a poorly insulated room. 

If you had human flesh, this might be very different altogether. You might have shivered, anticipatory, when you heard the rustling of his robes. You might have felt something when he penetrated you. As it is, all you feel is an odd sort of pinch. Your body informs you that something is inside you, a standard message just in case you didn’t realize. It would be hard not to realize.

“Ah,” Caster intones, his hands finding their place on your hips again. He sounds pleased. You’re not entirely sure if it’s with your body, or your obedience.

Your understanding of intercourse is a mechanical, scientific one. The biology of it- how sexual reproduction functions. You know the type of value humans place on sex and sexual desire. You know how to exploit it, if necessary. How to use that desire to blackmail. How to use it to deceive. How to use it to persuade, to infiltrate, to assassinate. 

You don’t know what is enjoyable about it. This body isn’t built to enjoy it. “Enjoyment” does not factor into your ability to carry out your missions.

Caster places a hand on your back, between your shoulders, and shoves you down against the top of the drawers. The grain of the wood bites into your skin. It won’t give you splinters- it can no more cut your ceramic flesh than you could cut Caster right now, as he leans over you, smoothing your hair out of the way so he can murmur softly into your ear.

“Lovely,” he’s saying. “You are lovely, Danzou. Still a doll, but human enough where it counts, hmm?” He gives one of his odd, giggling laughs, fingernails digging into your neck. You get the feeling that he wants to squeeze harder- that he wants to strangle you. That he would, if he could. If you needed to breathe.

Every sharp thrust of his hips pushes you a few inches forward, rubbing your cheek against the wood. You wonder, briefly, if he expects something from you, but Caster seems perfectly satisfied with you simply lying there, open and pliant for him. There’s little difference between you and a corpse- only a pulse, and even that only if someone were to peel back one of the panels on your skin and deliberately search it out. 

You wonder if he might have preferred a corpse to you. At least a corpse would stay warm, for a little while.

“You’ll be serving an army soon,” Caster says. He’s breathing heavily now, pelvis pressing up against your backside with every movement of his hips. “Perhaps… perhaps I should allow them to use you this way.”

“If that is what you want,” you say.

“Mm. You wouldn’t complain, would you. No matter how many men you had to service. And they could use you however they want. You weren’t made with a gag reflex, were you?”

“No, my lord.” Not as far as you’re aware, at the least.

Caster chuckles. “Good girl,” he says. “Ah, your body being so sturdy is a blessing and a curse. They could all fuck you, one after another, and you wouldn’t break, but they can’t get creative.” He squeezes your waist, hand worming under the silk of your remaining clothing to touch your stomach. “Nothing soft inside means there’s no point in carving extra holes. I suppose your cunt and mouth will have to be enough.”

You imagine he would probably do it anyway, if he could. Cut you open. Hurt you, mark you. As he fucks you, he squeezes down on your throat again with such force that if you were a human woman, he would have crushed your larynx. He wants to hurt you. He wants to hurt you. He wants to hurt you but he can’t because you weren’t made to be hurt, you were made to endure, endure anything he or anyone else can do for you, endure and survive and complete your mission, whatever that mission is. You were made to be obedient. You were made as a doll. You were  _ made,  _ and Caster’s hands cannot unmake you. 

His words cannot unmake you, though he tries, becoming more and more profane as he gets closer to climax, murmuring obscenities that you only half hear.  _ Take it slut, keep your legs open you filthy cumdump, this is what you’re good for.  _ The bells in his hair jingle with every thrust, the sound so absurd that you almost find yourself compelled to laugh. 

When he comes at last, it’s deep inside of you. You don’t feel it- like everything else, it’s relayed to you with a kind of factual sterility, a note you make to yourself for when you perform maintenance that night.

Caster pulls out after a moment. The head of his soft cock drags against your thigh, the slight tickle of it as strong a sensation as anything previously. You wait until you hear his clothing shift before you pick yourself up, turning away from the wall to look at him.

“Was that acceptable, my lord?” You ask. He seems satisfied, if the way his lips curl is any indication. He’s a hard man to read- every facial feature gives you something different, and you aren’t quite sure how to parse it. Caster’s smile is happy. The pinch of his cheeks is disgusted. The look in his eyes is a hunger that would paralyze a lesser being with fright.

You watch him, steadily. Your bottom half is still bare, and he eyes your legs with interest.

“You don’t bruise,” he says.

“I’m afraid not.”

“That’s a shame,” he says, baring his fangs.

You weren’t built with a soul, as far as you know. Still, when you meet his eyes, Caster somehow seems like the has less inside of him than you. Emptier than a soulless puppet. Emptier than a porcelain doll.

It’s a small, inexplicable comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.


End file.
